


Persistent Pining

by KannaOphelia



Series: 31 First Kisses: Good Omens [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Courtship, Crowley loves to spoil Aziraphale, M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Prompt: Pine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia
Summary: The Apocalypse has been averted, Heaven and Hell are leaving them alone, and things are really not progressing the way Crowley had hoped they would.Spoiling an angel is an art form that Crowley perfected long ago. He's not sure why it isn't working this time.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 First Kisses: Good Omens [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559824
Comments: 59
Kudos: 457
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works)





	Persistent Pining

**Author's Note:**

> For my dearest Avis, you amazing, wise, caring, brilliant person. Thank you so much for being part of my life.

After lunch on the third day of the rest of their lives, Crowley walked Aziraphale to the door of the book shop, and stood closer than usual, drinking his angel in. So close, so soft, so strong. The promise of the batted eyes, the meaningful looks, the _smiles_ over lunch. Aziraphale had looked at him like that before, looked like the sun rose and set behind Crowley's dark glasses, but there had always been Heaven and Hell looming over them. 

Now there was nothing stopping them.

On the other hand, he had taken Aziraphale for dinner at the Clove Club. Ten tasting courses. Aziraphale, glowing golden in the blue surroundings, had watched as duck _consommé_ was theatrically poured into his glass of one-hundred-year-old Madeira, and heaved a long breath. "Those poor ducks," he murmured, while Crowley stared at him, baffled. Aziraphale hadn't even _commented_ on the paired teas and had eaten the clementine sorbet mechanically, as if not caring what it tasted like or felt in his mouth. Crowley had felt sick.

As they left, they walked side by side. Crowley stared at Aziraphale's arm in its beautiful wool jacket. He had been rehearsing in his head, ever since they escaped Heaven and Hell, sliding his hand through that arm, hooking onto it, drawing him to walk closer. Maybe, even, sliding his hand _down_ his arm after a bit, and clasping his hand. Fingers against fingers, palms against palms.

Dear Satan, he was a six thousand-year-old demon, the thought of holding hands making his chest pound in panic made no sense at all. But Crowley had long ago surrendered any thought of sense when it came to Aziraphale. Aziraphale was the most clever being he'd ever met and thought dolphins were fish and mated out of water. Aziraphale lied to archangels and God and was cruel to innocent prospective book buyers and radiated goodness like a beacon. Aziraphale was petty and self-absorbed and the kindest creature in the world. Aziraphale avoided religious luminaries ("So _tedious_ , dear boy. Now pour me another drink if you'd be so--oh, not good, of course not!') and spent his social time getting smashed with a demon instead, and was the purest soul Crowley had ever encountered. Aziraphale was bashful and nervous and defied the ranks of angels assembled for battle. No logical rules applied to Aziraphale, or ever had. 

Especially rules about what demons were meant to feel when confronted by a fussy, kind-hearted angel: hostility, fear, disgust, definitely not the desire to push him against any convenient surface and kiss the breath out of him, unless it was with defiling intent. Not a mixture of fond irritation and something close to worship.

Demons certainly weren't meant to be feeling depressed because the angel was looking unhappy, the light in his river-coloured eyes dimmed.

Impossible to reach for Aziraphale's arm under those circumstances.

* * *

Perhaps Aziraphale needed taking out of himself. The next day, Crowley mentally ran down his list of Aziraphale's interests and booked--actually _booked_ \-- them into the Hotel du Vin for the Cheltenham Literary Festival. "I mean, you can't expect me to listen to the talks," he said, defensively. "But you'll need someone to drive you around. And the hotel has great French food and wonderful wines. You'll love your suite, it has a fire and a four-poster bed and a monsoon drench shower and roll-top bath. You can leave books everywhere." 

Aziraphale had nodded, looked at him with sad eyes, and said: "That's very considerate of you. But what about you?"

Crowley bit his lip. His suite, technically the second-best, had double showers and double baths next to each other and an eight-foot bed and if he had _dared_ only book one without risking huffing and losing the entire venture, he would have. The thought of bathing next to each other made his palms sweat. Aziraphale wouldn't even walk with his hand in reach, he wouldn't be for chummy bath dates. And he looked so bloody distant. Sweet as always, adorable as always, and a million miles away. When had all that softness hardened to marble?

"I'll find something to do. Well, the festival is something to look forward to," Crowley said with manic cheerfulness. "Well, not the book stuff. But..." His voice trailed off, unable to say "Time alone with you without Heaven and Hell getting involved and maybe throw in some seduction and promises of eternity-long devotion," when Aziraphale had just raised one eyebrow in courteous interest.

* * *

Crowley turned up the next day with chocolates. Not just any chocolates. A Le Royale 70 box of Debauve and Gallais chocolates. Aziraphale had eaten two, as if to seem polite, and suggested Crowley take the rest home.

"Angel, are you unwell?" He lifted his hand to cup Aziraphale's cheek, feeling for any added warmth beyond the usual angelic radiance. Crowley had dreamed of doing just that, over and over, and in his dreams, Aziraphale leaned into the touch, let him cradle his cheek, let him lean in closer...

"Of course not," Aziraphale huffed, stepping away. "We don't get ill. Now, my dear, I have some work to be getting along with."

Crowley went back to his flat, curled up on the ceiling, and shovelled chocolates down his throat, almost without tasting them.

Wait, perhaps that was the problem. He was rushing things without tasting them. Gulp the wine, barely bite into the chocolates, take the angel on a date every day as soon as he had the chance. Going too fast. Aziraphale liked to taste, to linger, to appreciate, to slow down and suck every last drop of pleasure from an experience.

He was probably the same about courtship, even after six thousand years of pining and dancing around each other. He was probably upset that Crowley was rushing things. He had probably been looking forward to a leisurely, slowed down romance, and less than a week in, Crowley was booking them into the same hotel and considering _holding hands_. Crowley shuddered in shame.

Right. He could go slow. Not in the Bentley, obviously, but for Aziraphale.

* * *

He kept away for a week, took Aziraphale to a nice sedate dinner at Rules, and when they arrived back to the bookshop, presented Aziraphale with tickets to the Gilbert & Sullivan Festival. Securing them had taken a quite major miracle as it was in August, and he had booked them into both the Buxton and Harrogate legs, ruthlessly booting tourists out of their hotel rooms.

Aziraphale looked at them as if bewildered.

"The National Gilbert & Sullivan Company is doing _Patience,_ " Crowley wheedled. "Come on, it's always fun laughing at what a poser Oscar Wilde was." He had actually fed Gilbert a lot of the information himself. 1

Aziraphale couldn't manage more than slight amusement with his token outrage. "That's unkind. He may have been er, dramatic, but he came to a very sad end."

"All humans come to sad ends, angel. You love _Gondoliers_ , come on. Think of the gavotte. And don't make me sit through _The Sorcerer_ alone, I might be banished to Hell along with John Wellington Wells during the ritual in the final scene. Once I went to see _Utopia Ltd_ and the actors wore roller skates. Do you know what I can do to a cast in roller skates? You need to protect me from them, and them from me." He was pleading now. To see comic opera. Definitely uncool. And definitely in opposition to his own firm resolution not to rush or push.

"I suppose I will. Thank you for thinking of me, dear." Aziraphale stepped out of the Bentley.

Crowley stared at the back of his head, mouthing, "Thank you for thinking of me," and trying not to chase after him and fling his arms around his waist and _beg_.

* * *

"Angel." Crowley reached out and took his hands a week later, as they walked back from feeding the ducks. Aziraphale's hands jerked as if they were going to draw back, and as if he had had to force himself to relax. Crowley would have preferred to be stabbed with a blade soaked in holy water. "You'd tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would. Don't be silly."

"Your side--they haven't been in contact?"

"I told you, I'd tell you if they had." Aziraphale took a deep breath and lifted his chin. "You're my best friend, aren't you?"

Crowley felt like he should have been transported with joy. This acknowledgement of their connection had been all he had wanted for centuries. But since Aziraphale had _looked_ at him like that in the Ritz, he had let himself entertain the thought of actually having more--and especially, this cold, sad, remote Aziraphale had not featured in his daydreams. This cold, sad--he looked into those beloved eyes. Cold, sad, _scared_ Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale, the natural liar.

"You're my best friend too, angel," he said thickly and squeezed his eyes shut to stop himself kissing Aziraphale's forehead. "On our side, right?"

"Of course," said Aziraphale, and the soft curves of his face looked like they had been carved from ice.

* * *

However Crowley looked at it, and assuming he hadn't misread centuries of soft glances and blushes and fluttered eyelashes, there was only one thing that could possibly be wrong.

Crowley didn't really give a bless about separation from Hell. It wasn't as if he'd had any more loyalty to the other demons than they had to him. Once they had all been a gang, Lucifer and his friends, but once they had been cast out all that had fallen apart pretty fast. Aziraphale, on the other hand, had always been loyal to Heaven, even when he cheated and wriggled around them. Crowley didn't mind being a demon, but Aziraphale _loved_ being an angel. 

Crowley knew Heaven could do terrible things to the humans, and had too much paperwork, just like Hell, but had assumed they were still the better deal, at least for Aziraphale. His pre-Fall memories of Heaven were mostly of boredom, singing and creative arts, after all. _Everything_ , Heaven and Hell, had been boring until the humans. And Aziraphale. Aziraphale could be difficult and profoundly annoying, but he was never boring.

Then Crowley had _been_ Aziraphale.

_Can I hit him?_

_Go ahead_

_Just fucking die already_

Crowley curled in even tighter on himself, focused his rage. How would Aziraphale have dealt with it? Would he have been nervous, hurt? Wept? Or would he have shown that magnificent courage that let him act like Gabriel and Beelzebub were just annoying parents at a school meeting?

Either way, it would not have mattered. They would not just have killed him, but hurt him, humiliated him. Let a lowly demon _hit_ him. What the heaven had let Crowley confide that in Aziraphale? He bit viciously into a miraculously not yet stale chocolate. Because he was a selfish bloody demon and he had thought it was important to let Aziraphale know so he wouldn't regret, wouldn't repent, wouldn't want to belong to Heaven anymore, would have no chance to be anything but to be on Crowley's side. _His_.

No good telling himself it was entirely Heaven's fault. Crowley could have protected Aziraphale by leaving him strictly alone, starting with Eden, if he had chosen. He had tried to make sure of Aziraphale's friendship, instead. Selfish bloody bastard that he was, Crowley had put out the light in those sparkling eyes just because he was pining after an angel.

Well, he would do his level best to put it back. He would show that angel that he was the most _good_ creature in the world. He would spoil him, treat him, flatter him, take him out to do bloody good deeds. Forget going slow, he would just _adore_ him, without demands of any kind. No letting his own emotions get in the way. Just selfless admiration.

He had been an angel once. He could do selflessness.

* * *

He turned up at the bookshop with perfume2 in hand.

"I bought you this, angel," he said.

Aziraphale, who had just successfully discouraged a Bible collector, frowned at the bottle. "I knew you hated my new cologne."

"No, no, it's not that. It's just that this, this smells like you. Like pine needles. Fresh and, and spicy and fruity, like the cakes you like so much, sweet and warm and welcoming, because you're so _good_ , angel, it's Christmas in a bottle, just like you, and--"

Aziraphale was looking bewildered and lost and Crowley couldn't bear it.

"..and I love it. You. I love you. You don't need Heaven, angel, I'll look after you. I love you. Um, take the perfume, please? I'm beginning to feel stupid holding it out. For Existence's sake Aziraphale, stop staring at me and smite me or marry me or something."

"Marry you?" Aziraphale asked, faintly.

"I mean. Only if you like." Crowley belatedly remembered he hadn't been going to ask anything of Aziraphale. "Or smite me, if that's easier. Might be a relief at this point."

"I didn't think--I thought I must have mistaken--you _love_ me?" Aziraphale had one hand over his heart, and he looked prissy and flustered and unbearably adorable.

"Of course I bloody do, I've been pining myself sick over you."

"That's not fair! I'm the one who's been pining!" Aziraphale set his lips in an annoyed pout. "You can't just turn up with a bottle of cologne and say it was you all along."

"Don't you _dare_ give me that, angel. I've been pining since the Garden of Eden. I have first pining rights."

"Fiddlesticks. You won't even hold my hand! I keep holding it out, and you shove yours in your pockets!"

Crowley stared at him.

"And you never try to kiss me goodnight, no matter how long I delay getting out of the car. And you booked _two_ hotel rooms. And you can barely spare me one night a week out of your schedule. Here I am, so lovesick I can barely eat, and you won't even come to a literary talk with me, you plan to skulk in your car doing heaven knows what. And you just treat me to chocolates to make up, like I'm a child. We saved the world together."

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it again. tried again, managed a croak. Third time lucky. "I'll cancel the second hotel rooms. Both of them."

"Oh, don't put yourself out for me. I hate to cause inconvenience."

That, coming from Aziraphale, was so outrageous a claim that Crowley managed to regain his balance. "It's no trouble to share a hotel room with you, angel. I promise. Now, about that proposal."

"You call _that_ a proposal?"

Crowley considered it. "Yes?" There had certainly been the words "marry me" somewhere in there.

"Oh." Aziraphale turned pink. " _Oh._ Well, er. Yes."

"Yes?" Crowley repeated.

"Yes!" Aziraphale's eyes were shining impossibly bright, and everything smelled of pine needles--oh, he had dropped the cologne and it had smashed, never mind--and none of it mattered because his angel was in his arms at last, his mouth warm and sweet and eager and above all _loving_ , and meeting every single kiss with another kiss.

One of the customers started clapping, and Crowley didn't even have attention to spare to curse them.

1 _Patience: Or, Bunthorpe's Bride_ is basically one long dig at Oscar Wilde and his "aesthetic" pretensions. I am of the minority fandom opinion that even though he collected his books and plays, Aziraphale would have found Wilde almost as intolerable in person as Crowley would, and Wilde would hardly put himself out for a middle aged, plump book dealer without a title to his name. Aziraphale would have been sorry about his fate, though--and I have no idea what he would have thought of his subsequent conversion.↩

2 Fille en Aiguilles by Serge Luteans, if you're curious. I am beginning to lose track of the number of colognes I've had Crowley give his angel. This is a pine one. ;)↩

**Author's Note:**

> These are getting slower, but also longer. XD
> 
> I am still catching up on comments--but I love them so much. I am greedy for them. Thank you all for your support.
> 
> And yes, the title is basically "Constant Craving" XD


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